


Somebody, Please (Tell Me No)

by lesbianettes



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Hurt/No Comfort, Unhealthy Coping, gay!Crockett, like seriously crockett does. not cope, mentioned sexual assault, post "Infection"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 15:14:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21076991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianettes/pseuds/lesbianettes
Summary: After the outbreak, Crockett goes on a bender.





	Somebody, Please (Tell Me No)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Thursday Girl" by Mitski

The first thing Crockett does when he’s able to go home is sleep. After a 36 hour shift periodically interrupted with cat naps, he’s too exhausted even for his usual methods of relaxation. He sleeps, dreamless and exhausted, for about eighteen hours before his brain recovers enough to gift him with memories of what he saw on the worst shift of his life. He’s seen a lot, as a trauma surgeon, but this is different. The way the patients looked. The smell. He’ll never forget the smell. But the most potent memory is of getting all the way down to the bone on that man’s arm, and realizing he couldn’t save it. The sound of the bone saw grinds against his memory until he sits up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath and still gagging on the smell. 

It takes a few long minutes for his breathing to even out and his brain to register faintly sweet fragrance of his humidifier. Normally it bothers him, but now he’s so grateful for something to focus on that’s real. He’s grateful for Goodwin giving him the next couple days to recover- she said she knew how hard on him it was, that he got hit by this a lot harder than the others. When he checks his phone, the date and time tell him he’s still got another day and a half to do whatever he needs. And it’s late afternoon already as well. Not too early, not too late. The perfect time to get started.

He gets ready faster than usual, but still meticulous because he has a system, a plan, a way he likes to do this in order to stop everything from hurting quite as badly by the time he crawls back to his own bed and passes out. A shower, hot and speedy. Dark jeans he has to wiggle into. Hair gelled artfully messy, something his college roommates affectionately called ‘sex hair.’ A tee shirt that’s comfortable and breathable, but tight enough to get attention. And just for the effect, he puts the slightest rim of makeup around his eyes. It’s not enough to be noticeable to most people, but it’s enough to make his eyes pop. In low lights, a drink in hand, he’ll get the attention he needs.

First stop is the gay bar a few blocks away. This early, it’s pretty empty, but Crockett just needs to start his buzz and eventually find someone who’ll take care of him for the night. Hopefully somebody with paper tabs in plastic baggies, or a joint they might share in a back alley. He looks good when he smokes, he knows, and when it makes his thoughts haze, he stops caring about whose hand is sliding up his shirt. 

Just like he thought, there’s just the bartender and a handful of patrons nursing their beers. One, young and brunette, has glitter on his cheekbones. He, too, must be pregaming. And he reminds Crockett of the kid who lost his arm, as he drinks through a martini Crockett can practically smell from here, so much so that he worries he’s seeing things until the bartender clears his throat. 

“The usual, Doctor?”

A little rum and coke doesn’t feel like enough. Even as a starter. He shakes his head and scans the extensive shelf. “Give me whatever’s strong.”

Thankfully, there are no questions demanding answers. Just a short wait and a little row of vodka shots because he’s familiar here, and when he needs something sharp, they deliver. One by one, he throws them back. They burn like antiseptic in his throat. Five down the hatch, and people begin to filter in. It’s a Friday night, he realizes, which means it’ll be busy, and he shouldn’t have to worry too hard about finding a way to party.

“So I don’t forget,” he says, and hands over his card to charge for the liquor. He doesn’t care about the price.

Once he gets his card back and pockets it, he allots himself five minutes in the bathroom before he starts asking around. The local dealers know him, but the unknowns often have the better stuff. And to get the best, he has to look the best, so he checks to see what the drinks have done for him other than start the warmth in his blood in the cracked mirror.

His cheeks are flushed up and his eyes glassy. Even with the makeup and the dewy glow of just tipsy, there are heavy shadows betraying his exhaustion. Not pretty enough. He needs lowlights, a way for them all to just focus on his silhouette, and then he’ll be alright. He’ll be alright. But when he shuts his eyes he sees the dead tissue and, for a moment, he smells it again and covers his mouth and nose on instinct.

It really fucked him up.

But he has to go back out, and the floor is just beginning to fill out with bodies to music, humming to life with the DJ’s arrival over the playlist that had been on shuffle. This is easy. He knows how to do this. Crockett pushes his way into the gathering crowd and lets the music wash over him, heavy like his body after five shots. He’s built up a tolerance over time, but this is enough to push him towards what he needs. Music, bodies, sweat. He knows when dinnertime comes because things get more crowded, and different people dance with him for moments at a time. They aren’t who he seeks, but there’s a small high to be found in being wanted as well. 

The fifth, or maybe sixth, person to grab his waist and dance with him, make circles with their hips against his body to tell him what they want and ask him for more, has what he needs. He’ll give it to them, but not before he can focus on them and not his life. He needs to be high first. Their hands are familiar, a little rough when they trace his ribs, and their lips are soft against his neck. Part of him wants to demand bruises. Maybe he’ll ask later.

“I’ve got something for you,” his dance partner says. Low voice. Warm breath. Crockett shivers. “Help me out, and I’ll help you.”

Crockett nods and lets himself be led off the floor, toward the back alley where they won’t be bothered. It’s not that he doesn’t have the money, but he likes this better because it doesn’t make him feel as guilty. The relationship becomes mutual, and there’s something relaxing about not needing to make the choices, not having to be in control. Cold gravel, sharp, digs into his knees. Hands tangle in his hair. All before he even gets a zipper undone. He’s more intoxicated than he’d usually be for this, but no one minds. Sloppy or precise, he’s good at this, and it’s a good exchange for the E he’ll be given.

“Open your mouth.”

He does. And he shuts his eyes. And he relaxes his muscles. This helps, this makes him hurt a little less from work destroying him for hours on end. When he gags, it’s not like he did in the hospital, but because he’s so good that someone can’t help wanting more from him- but of course, once it happens, they’re careful not to hurt him again. Gentle and rough at the same time. Fast thrusts into his mouth, a tennis shoe pressed down against his crotch to give him something to chase his own relief on, are different from the hand on his face, stroking his cheek softly and wiping away stray tears. All he has to do is sit here and give in, and when it’s over, he swallows like a good boy and gets a kiss for his trouble. 

His legs are weak like jelly, but he keeps his balance as he’s told again, “Open your mouth for me, baby,” and he sticks out his tongue for the little piece of paper to be placed on it delicately. It tastes like nothing. The fingers that drop it taste like sweat. Crockett shuts his eyes and hums, savors the slow dissolve and anticipates what it’ll feel like before long. 

“Thank you.”

Another kiss, uncoordinated, and he’s let back inside to get lost again in dancing. More partners, more drinks bought for him by faces he doesn’t remember. It’s blurry, for a while, and he only vaguely registers some things. At one point, he’s pretty sure he has his hand down someone’s pants. At another, somebody holds his face and gives him water. The rest doesn’t seep through the high, including the way work burned him. Not once, in the high, does he think about it, until it starts to fade and his head begins to ache. He needs more.

Crockett feels sticky, drenched in sweat, as he looks around for his dealer again. Nowhere near that he can find. That means a different man, a different choice. He doesn’t mind, but it’s annoying. He finds a face at the bar who looks useful, and sits next to them. Not a word out of his mouth before they wrap an arm around his waste and promise him they’ve got him, he’s in for the night of his life.

So he winds up with a group of men, just as high and desperate as he, wandering down the street to a real club where there’s no pretense of coming to unleash daily stresses. It’s for partying. It’s for them. These new friends of him share a round of shots and get busy. Disappearing with other guests, smoking off to the side. One of them is doing cocaine, and Crockett decides, it’s been a while since he snorted some coke. That’ll certainly help take the edge off this all.

He saunters up to the group and buys himself a small baggy, pours it on the table and cuts neat rows to take in with a rolled bill. It hurts, but the sensations is dulled by his inebriation and he doesn’t notice his nose bleeding until somebody hands him a tissue. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s real. And the night is just as blistering as his blood speeding through his veins, as frantic as the beating of his heart, as frisky as the stranger who gets him up against a wall and tells him he’s beautiful. Beautiful, and worth bringing home to rest in a new bed and get busier than allowed even at a place like this. 

Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to say no. Crockett can’t say no when he goes out like this because then he would have to deal with all the responsibilities he’s trying so desperately to escape. So he says yes, and in the cab ride he shuts his eyes and revels in the touch he’s allowed. Bites along his throat, bruises waiting to happen. A soft hand in his boxers, stroking him and reigniting the pleasure he left in wait after he blew his dealer earlier.

He comes on the car ride. And the man next to him hesitates, but Crockett pulls him into a kiss and promises this won’t spoil the fun just as the cab rolls to a stop. And it’s accepted as an answer, so he stumbles in accompaniment into a nice building, into an elevator where he’s once again pressed to a wall and made to feel good. As he gives back too, proves he can do something right.

They make it into the apartment, luxurious and open and pretty and smelling like linen air freshener. Crockett loves this. He’s got time left on his high, and someone to pass the time with who’s already helping him get out of his clothes. Cool air on his skin, freeing him from overheating, which he suddenly realizes had been happening. He sighs and returns the favor. They’re both stripped down, skin to skin, as Crockett’s carried to a bed and dropped so he bounces and a little laugh bubbles out. Kisses. Affection. Intimacy. He’s wanted and appreciated and everything is going to be okay.

Soft sheets underneath him, he can’t stop touching even as the man who the bed belongs to touches him. His thighs and his hips, his dick. Everything is wet and warm and fast and it’s over so soon, but lasts so long. Crockett’s mouth is dry and he’s tired, he’s tired, but he’s taken care of and there’s hands on his waist when his high crashes.

There’s still a dick in him when he wakes up a few hours later to use the bathroom. His head is pounding, and he winces as he extricates himself from bed. It’s not just his head that hurts, but his ass and various other parts of his body. In the harsh, painful lights of the master bath, he can see the mess of his body. Bruises and scrapes. Some are obvious in origin- his knees from blowing his dealer in an ally, his hips from the man asleep not far. But others are a question. Little marks on his wrists, one on his leg. He squints at his arms. 

Taking a piss is more important than figuring that out, and he’s dying to get back to sleep, so he takes care of that and washes his hands with fragrant bar soap. Again, the marks get his attention. They’re a problem for not-hungover-Crockett, he decides.

He stumbles back toward the bedroom, but doesn’t make it. He remembers falling. His head hurting more. And then nothing.

Nothing stays nothing until he wakes up again, in a much more familiar place this time. These blue walls are home in a bad way, and as he slowly takes stock of himself, he figures out exactly why he’s here. Nothing hurts anymore, because of the slow painkiller drip and saline draining into an IV his arm. His head feels a little like cotton, metaphorically and physically when he reaches up to touch it. Something happened. He doesn’t know how he got here, and he definitely doesn’t want to be. There hasn’t been time to process what he went through via liquor and a couple nights out, and he doesn’t want them to see him after one of his rougher nights. 

He tries to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, but his body feels so heavy. He gives up after a second and fumbles around for the call button. If he’s here, he might as well find out how. Crockett hates when patients press it more than once. But he’s irritated, and out of it, and wants answers, so he grabs it and keeps hitting it until April comes in, holding a tablet and looking some mix between concerned and unimpressed.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” she says, and it’s too loud.

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “Lights?”

She turns them off for him and comes to the edge of his bed. There’s that worry on her face, and he has the urge to tell her to lighten up, but it’s too much effort. Crockett presses a hand against his head like it’ll help and takes a slow breath.

“Why’m I here?”

April glances away. Then pulls up a file on her tablet. “You were dropped off outside the hospital at about four in the morning with a head injury, completely passed out. Your tox screen showed MDMA, cocaine, and a .13 BAC. And…”

The tox screen doesn’t surprise him. But it probably does everyone else. “Out with it, Nurse Sexton.”

“We did an exam to see if you had any more injuries and…” she clears her throat, “we believe that you may have been sexually assaulted, so when you’re feeling up to it, the police would like to-”

He holds up a hand and she stops talking. Silence, blissful. He wants to sleep some more, and maybe up the dosage on those painkillers so he can sleep the rest of the hangover away. Not talk about her assumptions, or worse, get the cops involved with his not-so-legal extracurriculars. 

“Crockett.”

“Listen. I don’t know how I got here, but I do know that nothing like that happened to me.”

“How can you be sure?”

His memories are hazy. Soft sheets. Soft hands. “I had  _ consensual _ sex. People are gay, Nurse Sexton, just because I like to-”

“Okay, okay.” She laughs a little, but her face stays serious. “But the reason we think that someone hurt you are these bruises.” April takes his hand to hold it up, show off the bruise on his wrist that has started to look like a handprint. “And your tox screen.”

“Everything I took, I knew what I was taking.”

“And the bruises? How you got hurt?”

He presses his lips together and looks away. He doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know, and deal with all the fallout. So he pulls his hand away from her and shuts his eyes. “My head hurts, can you give me a little more medicine?”

“I’ll have to ask Lanik. He’s been looking after you.”

She leaves him, with no extra way to dull the sharp pain in his chest and the promise of another interrogation from the head of trauma. He’s about to be fired, probably, and maybe this failure will kill him. With his eyes shut, he can still see that patient’s arm. Everything he wanted to forget. He presses his face into his hands and fights back stinging tears.

Soft rapping against the wall tells him he’s got company. It’s followed by a weight on the edge of the thin mattress. “April said you wanted more painkillers.”

“Are you gonna give them to me?”

“Why do you want them?”

Crockett peeks out from behind his hands and taps his fingers against his temple. “My head hurts. I might have a concussion, Dr. Lanik.”

Lanik shakes his head and puts a hand on Crockett’s leg. He cut into that part of a fourteen year old girl’s leg the other day, and she almost died on his table. He should check on her while he’s here, but the mere thought makes him want to vomit. All he can think about is the way the tissue looked. Smelled. Sounded.

“We did a pretty thorough workup, and we put together some pieces.”

“Okay?”

He doesn’t know what the point of this is. But he hurts and he wants to forget and they’re clearly not about to release him to get fucked up and taken care of the way needs any time soon. So where’s this going? Are they going to tell him that he has the infection? His whole body is kind of numb, but that always happens after a bender and with the painkillers they’ve given him. And he saw his own wrist. It was fine. He’s terrified of what this could be.

“I know this wasn’t a one-time thing,” Lanik says. That same face April gave him blooms on his face. “Between your labs, and a couple comments you’ve made to other doctors, and nurses- it’s clear you have a problem.”

“My problem is that my head hurts.”

Lanik is still touching him. It isn’t soothing like it was from so many last night. Instead, he wants to scream and jump out of bed and get out of this God-forsaken hospital and the horrors contained within it.

“I’m not giving you more painkillers,” Lanik says firmly. And he has the nerve to set a handful of pamphlets on Crockett’s legs with ugly stock photos of beaches and blonde women. “I am giving you a couple weeks off. Get clean, Crockett. Please.”

“Fuck you,” Crockett answers.

Instead of arguing, Lanik leaves. Draws the curtains. Keeps the lights off. And Crockett is left in the dark room with rehab advertisements in his lap, exhaustion heavy in his bones, and painful bits and pieces of the night before. He doesn’t know what happened last night. He never does, but this is the first time something really bad may have happened, because he apparently hit his head hard enough for a concussion and doesn’t remember how.

The wrong memories vanish, and the wrong ones remain.

He pushes the pamphlets onto the floor like it’ll make them vanish, and attempts to sink back into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @beelivia


End file.
